


Dichromacy

by QuestionableCorrosion



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drabble Collection, Gen, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuestionableCorrosion/pseuds/QuestionableCorrosion
Summary: Drabbles about solipsism and trying to contribute to society.Or, in which Russell grows eight horns and summons a meteorite with his blood.





	

**_I._ **

Russell stared down at the funny-looking sheep. “Why don’t they have horns?”  
  
Tabasa put down the bag of feed. “Most breeds of sheep don’t have them.”  
  
The real reason, Russell surmised, was that he hadn’t imagined them with horns.  
  
Tabasa looked gently at the sheep. “They all had horns in ancient times, but for ages now, most of them are bred to be...” His brow furrowed. “Well...born without horns.”  
  
Apparently, personality traits and preferences were easier to make up than specialised words. Russell leaned against the fence and looked up.  
  
Though it was still midday, the sky was darkening rapidly.

 

* * *

  
  
“The breeds that do have horns sometimes have more than two,” Tabasa continued.  
  
Russell turned his head. “Really?”  
  
“Sure. Some have three, some have four, some even have eight.” Tabasa mimicked horns with his fingers.  
  
Russell stared. This didn’t seem like the kind of information he would have learned at school, let alone memorised. Either it came from some bizarre reach of his subconscious, or maybe, just maybe…  
  
“There’s a word for it...” Tabasa folded his arms as he thought. “Can’t bring it to mind now.”  
  
An animal keeper would’ve remembered the word. Russell duly smothered the spark of hope.

 

* * *

  
  
Russell crouched down to pet the nearest sheep. It was as fluffy and soft as it looked like. “I think I should have horns.”  
  
Tabasa laughed. “Humans never have them.”  
  
“I’ve seen pictures like that.” There had been a painting done in black and white on the last school trip he’d gone on, of a curly-haired man reclining against a cliff.  
  
“Yeah, but art’s different. Only your imagination’s the limit when it comes to stuff like that.”  
  
Tabasa walked over and ruffled Russell’s hair. “See? No horns here.”  
  
The touch was as comforting as Russell had thought it would be.

 

* * *

  
“What would you do if I said you weren’t real?”  
  
Russell had hoped for a radical reaction, but Tabasa considered the proposal calmly and quietly, his eyes bright.  
  
“You know when you were very young,” he finally said, “and for the first time realised that when people left your presence, they still existed elsewhere, even when you didn’t see them?”  
  
Russell nodded.  
  
Tabasa smiled ruefully. “Thing is, there’s no way to be sure it’s true. Maybe things really do only exist when you’re around.”  
  
He stretched his arms towards the sky.  “The stuff you think of on quiet days, huh?”

 

* * *

 

**_II._**  
  
“You have suffered enough.”  
  
Russell met his doppelganger’s eyes.  
  
“Are you really me?” he asked.  
  
The Informant’s smirk returned. He shrugged. _Who knows?_  
  
Someone did, Russell knew. Someone back in the real world, monitoring the entire experiment, absolutely knew the truth. The Informant probably did too, really.  
  
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. What matters is that you choose. Either confess or wither away. The brave option, or the cowardly one.”  
  
Russell thought about it. All in all, it wasn’t much of a choice. Moreover...  
  
He frowned. “How is either option a brave one?”  
  
The Informant had no answer to his question.

 

* * *

  
  
The Informant didn’t follow after him. He stood by the door, his eyes half hooded, as Russell dashed out of the village.  
  
Russell’s mind was a blur. Confess his sins to one of the make-believe villagers? What good would that do? The dead had no ears, no matter how guilty he felt. No penance would revive them.  
  
He slowed down. The door leading to the Dreamsend shop was gone, as he had known it would be.  
  
“What’s the point?” he yelled at people no longer there. “What’s the point of me understanding all this when there’s nothing I can do?”

 

* * *

  
  
He stumbled around the dark forest, barely seeing where he went.  
  
The way he saw it, confessing his sins would be no braver than acting like they didn’t exist; it would be a pretend game of punishment with no real worth.  
  
Worse, none of his options could even begin to make up for what he had done. The best he could do was make sure he would never sin again.  
  
Finally, he found a Nightmare shambling near the abandoned tent.  He raised his arms to his sides and waited.  
  
The deadly shadow passed through him harmlessly, like a fading ghost.

 

* * *

  
  
He slouched down to the beach, his mind burning.  
  
Embracing death, then, was also nothing more than an attempt to escape.  Clearly, the Informant had been wrong. He hadn’t suffered enough yet.  
  
He gazed blearily at his surroundings. The sea was black and still, with the beach eerily pale by contrast. Not a single sign of life remained, not even the corrupt monstrosities he had witnessed earlier that day. Perhaps he didn’t need them anymore.  
  
His eyes kept returning to the sand. Such a vast, empty space, almost like…  
  
An empty canvas.  
  
With that in mind, he set to work.

 

* * *

 

**_III._ **

He found a stick, and began carefully drawing into the sand. Mistakes were easy enough to cover up and draw over, and the stick obeyed him like no pencil ever had.  
  
He drew himself. Or perhaps it was the Informant? Russell was no longer sure.  
  
With deliberate strokes, he added a pair of horns. Then, he added another pair, this one curling downwards, hiding the ears.  
  
He added yet another pair, then a lone seventh horn, pointing almost straight upwards. After momentary hesitation, he mirrored it, making the total eight. One way or another, it would be true before long.

 

* * *

  
  
He drew plants, from cacti to eye-trees. He drew flowers, from fields of higanbana to a lone sunflower. He drew animals: rabbits, monkeys, and sheep.  
  
He drew the townspeople. Tabasa with his gun. Gardenia cooking. Cody and Dogma talking with serious expressions. Kantera smiling peacefully. Mireille shyly approaching the mayor. Yumi standing tall, exuding confidence.  
  
His scalp itched, but he kept working until a sudden surge of pain bursting through his skull forced him to stop.  
  
He staggered to the sea and stared at his reflection as four pairs of horns sprouted from his head, rising towards the starless sky.

 

* * *

  
  
The pain soon faded, and after getting used to the weight, he returned to his work with renewed vigour.  
  
He drew a knife, the knife he had used, and with the knife he opened his veins and had ink. He only had one colour, two if he counted the pale canvas, but it would do. All he had to do was make it all come alive.  
  
He drew everything that had existed in the dream, never running dry, never running out of night. Finally, he drew the sun, and sat in its centre to wait.  
  
A lone star lit up.

 

* * *

  
He had been thinking of nothing but the task at hand, but now, as he looked on calmly as the star in the horizon grew larger, he felt at peace.  
  
Whether there was worth to what he had done, he didn’t know, but he had done his best, using his lifeblood trying to create something with value.  
  
It was probably enough, as the star kept approaching. Russell knew stars were usually much bigger than planets, but this one was tiny. It would hit nothing but him.  
  
He closed his eyes, hoping that without him, the world would continue to exi

 


End file.
